


Handling Hangovers

by Voleste



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-02-13
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:57:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3344429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Voleste/pseuds/Voleste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The elderly couple who had been in the store, checking out a particularly old edition from Charles Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities, glanced at Crowley, took in his appearance and promptly left, muttering ‘they should’ve gone to Waterstones after all.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Handling Hangovers

**Author's Note:**

> This was based on a [Tumblr post](http://gloucesterroad.tumblr.com/post/110805104370/nanothoughtsfromvoleste-gloucesterroad-i-see) by gloucesterroad;  
> "i see this gif of bernard black and think “crowley allowed himself to get a hangover after a wine night with aziraphale and woke up in the bookshop very grumpy”

The man in the corner of the bookshop, sitting at a unstrategically placed reading table in the middle of shelves containing the oldest and rarest books had been groaning all morning. His name was Crowley, and he was a demon, although that wasn’t something you’d notice at a first glance. He seemed to be sleeping at first, occasionally snoring loudly, startling the few customers who were present at the time and not too long after fled the bookstore. The man reeked and the owner had no intentions to make him leave, much to the displeasure of those browsing through the store.

The snoring stopped and made place for a heartfelt groan; the kind of groan someone would make after having slept either too much or too little, or when they had been hit with a hammer or shovel on their head, repeatedly. The man stirred, slowly moved his head from the wooden table and took note of the several wine bottles scattered around him, including one right in front of him. Half full, too.

Despite knowing better, he poured a glass. He really didn’t want to soothe his hangover with wine, but he couldn’t be bothered to actually get up and walk all the way to the kitchen for a glass of water. He was feeling sluggish and slow and right now he didn’t want to do anything but sit at the table.

The elderly couple who had been in the store, checking out a particularly old edition from Charles Dickens’ Tale of Two Cities, glanced at Crowley, took in his appearance and promptly left, muttering ‘they should’ve gone to Waterstones after all.’  

There were no people in the store apart from him and the owner and he lit a cigarette. Normally he would’ve been kicked out by now.

They sat there in silence, the owner idly browsing through a First Edition of Tolstoy’s War and Peace (in Russian, too) and the man with the hangover, who had closed his eyes yet again and made no movement, cigarette dangling from his lips. This lasted for an hour or two.

A little after noon rain started pouring and with the rain, the people came pouring in as well, wet coats and umbrella’s barely brushing against the shelves. The owner didn’t seem too pleased. There was chatter, and there was a dog barking, and teenagers loudly discussing which Harry Potter book was the absolute best from the series and then loudly complaining why none of them were in stock and why the store didn’t have audio books and -

“Shut up, all of you! I’m dying,” the man at the table snapped, contemplating if throwing a book at them would be a good idea. The people around him gave him a worried glance, as if he was about to murder them in slow and unrefined ways.

“Get out!”

That worked surprisingly well. The rain had conveniently stopped too (even though really, the weather forecast had said that it was going to rain for hours) and the customers left quickly. One ballsy teenager lingered, muttered “Stupefy”, was disappointed nothing happened and got shooed out after a nasty glare from the owner.

No one else bothered to come inside the shop that day. The owner closed the store a little after three pm and gave the demon a smile. “You know, there’s really no need for suffering like that.”

Crowley grunted. “You try miracling it away while feeling like you’ve been dragged from Alaska to Nepal and back. You could’ve helped me, angel.”

“Oh, no. You did an excellent job driving them away. So really, it was quite convenient to have you there.”

He extinguished his cigarette, frowning at the man. “You used me. How angelic of you.”

The sarcasm went by unnoticed. The angel - whose name was Aziraphale, and yes, that was quite an unusual name, and no, he didn’t make it up for the sake of sounding interesting - ignored the remark and placed a hand on Crowley’s forehead for just a second. “There. Better?”

“Better.”


End file.
